


goodnight, my love (until tomorrow then)

by skeleton_twins



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Friends to Lovers, Guitars, Historical Inaccuracy, Late at Night, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Dancing, also hermann has a cat cause why not, because i didn't do ANY research for this, but it's the romantic vibes we're after lads not accurate history, greaser newt babey!!!, mentions of newt's motorcycle cause i couldn't resist, the letters oh god the letters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:54:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26115271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeleton_twins/pseuds/skeleton_twins
Summary: It was in the summer of 1958 when a whirlwind blew through the streets of Germany. Hermann Gottlieb gets a new neighbor.Or a greaser Newt fic where they're neighbors and fall in love through music and letters.
Relationships: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Comments: 12
Kudos: 44





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [buckgaybarnes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckgaybarnes/gifts).



> Happy birthday to one of the most talented writers I know!!! Maria, you're truly one of a kind and frankly, iconic. Anyways, I really hope you enjoy this!!! <3

It was in the summer of 1958 when a whirlwind blew through the streets of Germany. A sticky hot breeze sweeps into a small kitchen through a barely cracked open window. It’s stuck, much to Hermann’s dismay, only able to lift a couple of inches before it sticks. After several attempts of pushing and shoving, it remains in place.

Bright lights from adjacent buildings spill into his flat. The soft glow of street lamps and moonlight blurring together on the kitchen floor. 

Hermann has grown accustomed to the outside noises—the sounds of traffic bustling even at midnight, the creaks and groans of wooden floors from heavy footsteps, the soft purring from his cat sleeping on the coffee table. 

The noises become a lullaby after a few months of sleepless nights. 

Each evening is almost identical—he sits on a red worn sofa with a notepad on his lap and ink staining his fingertips. Rows of equations lining yellow-colored pages. Handwriting becoming messier as it grows further into the night, as his eyelids grow heavy, and Hermann starts to drift from his work. 

This time though—something new happens. A noise Hermann has never heard before, not since he has moved in, stirs him from his slipping grasp on consciousness. He blinks awake, blearily searching for the source of the noise. It takes a moment for Hermann to realize it’s not coming from _his_ apartment. He stands, shakily, on his two feet clutching at his cane handle tighter than usual. He stiffly moves as he follows the noise to his open window. 

It’s music, Hermann realizes after he leans in closely, shutting his eyes to focus on the quiet sounds of guitar-strumming coming from next door. Hermann recognizes the song after a minute—some American song that was always playing on the radio.

He stays there, right by his window, listening until the muffled sounds of music cease for the night.

…

  
  


His new neighbor is supposed to be a professor, some American biologist according to the latest gossip told by the elderly lady across the hall. She likes to invite Hermann over to chat over tea before Hermann leaves for work. Most of the time it’s a quiet affair at least on Hermann’s side—reading the newspaper and finishing the daily crossword puzzle while Mrs. Fischer knits and talks about the residents in the building. How she learns so much, Hermann has no clue. She likely has a dossier on everyone, including Hermann.

The man certainly didn’t _look_ like a professor ought to, at least from what Hermann could tell from his backside. Hermann was coming home, awkwardly carrying a brown bag of groceries under one arm, his keys, and cane in his other hand. The door was left wide open—possibly for more airflow to combat the heat—so Hermann takes the opportunity to sate his curiosity. The man stands with his back to Hermann, digging through cardboard boxes. 

Hermann thinks the temperature must have risen, the only explanation for his face to warm even more as he stares at the man. His jeans, denim and dark, clings to his short legs, and his shapely round—Hermann quickly jerks his gaze away, lifting his eyes to the tight white shirt he wore instead. It was thin and drenched with sweat, the stiff breeze not doing much help in cooling him down. It was revealing, barely hiding the muted colors: greens, reds, and blues of his tattoos underneath that appeared to cover down his back and arms. His hair was slicked back and greased. Hermann’s not too surprised given the black comb tucked away in his back pocket. 

Hermann eyes the leather jacket resting on the back of a blue chair and the acoustic guitar standing against the edge of a couch.

The man turns around and finally notices Hermann standing at his door. His gaze ticks up and down, slowly, taking in Hermann’s flushed appearance at getting caught staring.

“Hi.” He greets Hermann with a wide grin, nodding towards the bag under Hermann’s arm, “Need a hand, doll?” 

“No, thank you.” Hermann declines, a bit more curtly than he intends. He turns away from the doorway, quickening his pace to reach his own flat a few feet away. He can still feel the weight of the stranger’s gaze and hears a raspy laugh. 

  
  


…

  
  


He listens, that night, to the sounds of a guitar plucking next door and thinks about the man playing it. 

It’s another popular American song that plays too often on the radio—but it has a much slower rhythm than the song from the night before. Something romantic.

Hermann swallows as he opens the envelope that was slipped under his door earlier. It was his cat that noticed it first, batting at the envelope before Hermann, laughing, scoops the envelope and cat up into his arms.

In a messy scrawl, that almost looks as if the writer was trying to be neat, inviting him over because he heard that Hermann was also something of a scientist too (no doubt from Mrs. Fischer) and how he’d love to discuss some of Hermann’s work. There’s an equally messy signature at the bottom of the letter. 

Hermann thumbs over the letters of this name, slightly smudging some of the still-wet ink. 

_Newton Geiszler._

  
  


…

  
  


Their first meeting goes sour rather quickly. His apartment seems to have turned into a mess since Hermann last caught a glimpse of it. Open books and uneven stacks of papers lying about. There are beakers and test tubes filled with dark blue liquids—some kind of experiment in the works. Hermann could disregard this, for the most part, it’s rude not to have cleaned before having guests over, but it’s downright insulting when Newt starts pointing out several mistakes in Hermann’s thesis. Soon the awkward discussion turns into a screaming match. Hermann ends up storming out of the apartment. 

Despite this—and Hermann’s reluctant to even admit such a thing to himself —he’s quite fascinated by the biologist. 

He returns the next afternoon and the next.

And even though they spend most days together, Newton keeps slipping long letters underneath Hermann’s door. 

  
  


…

  
  


Newton never mentions it: him playing his guitar each night, not even in his letters. So Hermann never brings it up, but the guitar sits against a wall right in a corner of Newton’s kitchen, right next to the open window. 

His window opens much higher than Hermann’s does.

Hermann forces himself to keep his eyes off the instrument, almost frightened that if he stares too long at it that the subject will be brought up, and in turn, the nightly music will cease. 

But Newton keeps playing his guitar late at night and Hermann keeps listening. 

  
  


…

  
  


The length of Newton’s letter varies. Sometimes they’re a small scrap of paper already covered with experiment musings. Other times it’s a whole stack. 

Hermann understands why Newton tells him he’s better at confiding through ink than in person. He’s the same way too. So he spills intimacies onto lined pages. It’s easier to be vulnerable when he’s writing it down instead of facing the man. 

Newton, as brazen and presumptuous as ever, invites himself over. He’s delighted by Hermann’s cat and spends most of the time bouncing between arguing with Hermann while down on his knees playing with the cat.

He smiles when he notices the pile of envelopes and pieces of paper that Hermann keeps on the coffee table. It’s a routine Hermann has: reading Newt’s letters or writing his responses late into the night as Newt’s playing his guitar. Hermann pretends that Newton’s playing _for_ him, rather than playing from boredom. It’s a gentle, soft smile, not one of Newton’s usual smirks, and Hermann’s stomach erupts with butterflies when he directs it towards him. 

He doesn’t say anything about it, merely continues complaining about the wait of the parts for his motorcycle to arrive. They never discussed their letters whenever they were together, never about the things they write. It’s an unspoken rule they both abide by. 

Newton sits on his couch, right in the spot that Hermann usually occupies every night. He glances at the letters again and then returns his stare at Hermann.

“You’re blushing, sugar.” 

It’s a needless observation, Hermann’s already aware of the way his face is burning. He blames the window. “It’s the bloody heat.” 

Newton hums and stands back up, walking towards the small kitchen. He reaches behind and tugs out a pocket knife from the back of his jeans. 

“I could probably fix this,” Newt tells him, poking at the corners of the window with the tip of the blade.

Hermann startles when the teapot kettle whistles, too distracted by the sight of Newton working. The way his back muscles move underneath his white shirt as he finally shoves the window higher and looks back over his shoulder to give Hermann a lopsided grin. 

“Told you I could fix it.” 

“Yes, yes.” Hermann nods, quickly moving to the stove and taking the kettle off the stove burner. He pours them both a cup. “Thank you, Newton.” 

  
  


…

  
  


Eventually, Newton’s visits begin to last longer, until he spends most of his day over at Hermann’s place, bringing his guitar with him.

Newton sits on the red sofa, his tattoos both blending and contrasting against the fabric, as the guitar rests in his lap. He leaves enough space for Hermann to join him and Hermann wonders if he does this on purpose. A nonverbal invitation for Hermann to sit close next to him.

He strums quietly, softly singing lyrics Hermann isn’t able to catch under his breath. 

Hermann keeps his distance. He doesn’t trust himself not to blurt out the things he’s been wanting to say, wishing he could jot down in his letters. He chooses to sit by the window instead, feeling the night breeze cooling his flushed skin. 

  
  


…

  
  


“You’re going to wake the neighbors,” Hermann warns with a smile. 

The evening had started with liquor. Newton had brought over a bottle of... _something_...Hermann couldn’t quite recall now. The bottle was half empty, sitting on the coffee table along with two filled glasses of it, untouched, and the alcohol had started to take effect. There’s a slight slur to Hermann’s speech and his eyelids grow heavy, almost unable to keep his eyes open. 

But Hermann wants to remember this night forever if he could. He tries to memorize every single detail in hopes that it won’t ever fade from his memory. 

From the night breeze blowing through the wide-opened window to the way Newton sings a terrible rendition of some Dean Martin song or maybe it was Frank Sinatra, Hermann always had trouble telling them apart. Newton’s swinging around in the kitchen as he strums his guitar. His boots squeak and in the morning Hermann will most likely yell at the scuff marks that he’s leaving against the tiles, but at that moment, Hermann doesn’t quite care. 

Bright lights pour over Newton, casting him in a glow. The colors spin as Newton does, the moonlight reflecting off the floors and his guitar making him shine. 

“You’re going to wake the neighbors,” Hermann repeats. “They’re going to file a noise complaint and the landlord will kick us both out. Come sit down.” 

Newt spins, a little off-balance from the alcohol, and makes his way over towards Hermann if, albeit, wobbly. Hermann’s expecting him to sit down beside him, but Newt all but collapses on the floor next to the sofa instead. 

“I’m dizzy.” Newton hiccups. “We...We could go somewhere together.” 

Hermann almost doesn’t catch it, eyelids becoming heavier as the minutes tick on. He uncrosses his legs, letting himself fall back against the cushions. “What are you on about?” 

“If the landlord kicks us out. We could take my bike and go somewhere.” 

Hermann hums, “We’ll see in the morning.” 


	2. Chapter 2

In the morning, the window is still left open and Newton Geiszler is sound asleep on the floor of Hermann’s apartment. Sunlight is pouring inside and leaving rectangles of yellow against Newt’s white shirt. 

Hermann lies there on his sofa for a few more minutes. The ache of a hangover lies near his temples, small for the moment, but Hermann fears it will build into a pounding headache as the day goes on. He doesn’t move, though. He takes in his surroundings: the footsteps outside the door, the muffled car horns honking down the street, the quiet purrs of a content cat sitting on top of the coffee table, and batting at Newt’s glasses, and loud snores from Newt.

He lets his hand dangle off the edge of the couch and he hesitates before tracing his fingertips over the patches of sunlight caught between Newton’s shoulder blades. The shirt is warm to the touch. 

“Mhmm.” Newt shifts in his sleep. “What you up to, doll-face?” 

Hermann flushes and jabs a little more firmly at Newton’s shoulder. “Trying to wake you. Get up, it’s past noon.” 

“Where are we?” 

“My place. Are you still drunk?”

“No.” Newt denies as he sits up, but Hermann isn’t too convinced. He shoots the cat a drowsy smile before taking back his horn-rimmed glasses and slipping them on. Newt pushes them higher up the bridge of his nose with a knuckle before turning to face Hermann. Sunlight glints off them and Hermann momentarily can’t see the several tiny scratches that cover the lens. 

“Cute hair.” 

His hands fly straight to his head, patting down his hair as his face grows warmer. “You look awful.” 

“Ouch.” Newt slaps a hand to his chest. “You wound me, Hermann, baby, you really do.” 

Hermann moves to stand and Newt is quick to grab his cane that he had dropped on the floor the previous night. He passes it over to Hermann without a word. 

“You gonna make me some breakfast or are you kicking me out on an empty stomach _and_ with a hangover.” 

He tries not to smile as he walks stiffly a few steps into the kitchen, but since his back is towards Newton, Hermann smiles anyways. “You can have some toast-” 

“My savior.” Newt holds a hand over his heart, pretending to swoon on his feet, as Hermann grabs two slices of bread from the bread box.

“-and then you must leave. I have a lot of work that needs to be done.” 

“I could stay, and eat toast, and sleep on your sofa while you work,” Newt suggests as he takes a seat at the kitchen table. “Promise this pretty face won’t distract you too much.” 

Hermann scoffs as he gets started on making coffee but doesn’t turn down the offer nor does he mention the fact that Newton will distract him regardless of whether Newt’s sleeping or not. 

In the end, Newton eats his two slices of toasts and two more, burns his tongue on the coffee, and collapses onto the sofa. He doesn’t go back to sleep, but pats the top of Hermann’s cat once before pulling his guitar into his lap and begins to play.

It’s more than a little distracting, to say the least. 

Hermann doesn’t know why the question slips from his throat, maybe he’s still a little drunk from the night before, or maybe the hangover has given him a boost of courage to speak about his curiosity. 

“Why do you play every night?” 

There’s a brief pause in his strumming before the music continues. It's quick enough that Hermann almost thinks he had imagined it. Newton doesn’t glance up when he answers.

“Because you like it.” 

Hermann sputters, “How could you possibly know that?” 

“You never complained after the first night I played.” Newt smiles to himself, fondness lifting the corners of his mouth. “So, I figured you liked hearing it.” 

His heartbeat quickens at hearing his wishes confirmed, not in sync with Newton’s soft guitar playing. It’s not pounding against his ribs just yet. It’s out of its normal rhythm, skipping and stuttering out of step. Hermann thinks he ought to sit down. 

His fingers twitch against his cane handle as he takes his usual seat near the window. He lets his eyes wander the streets of Berlin. Vehicles zip by and the laughter of pedestrians echo. A bustling city. These noises should be louder, he realizes, but he can’t hear much other than the sounds of his own heart and the strum of guitar strings. 

He remembers one of Newt’s letters, mentioning that he was born here in Berlin before he was whisked away to the Americas. He knows a lot about Newton mainly from the letters he sends. Hermann suspects that the opposite is true: Newton knows a lot about him too.

**  
  
**

… 

  
  


The sun is sailing it’s usual wayward path, dipping slowly, and swirls of colors begin to peek through the clouds. Newton had left hours ago but promised to return with the stars. 

It’s quite early when he comes back, still dusk and no stars in sight. Hermann is standing by his still opened-window, having no desire to shut it since Newt fixed it. 

There’s a remaining heat in the evening’s breeze that’s only beginning to cool and Hermann doesn’t bother to let Newton inside when he hears a rap of knuckles against his door. Quick several knocks in some off-beat rhythm that Newt always does. Newton’s been here enough that he doesn’t really need to knock anymore. Newt lets himself in. 

“Gee, Hermann, you look like you’re waiting for your lover to come back from the war. You missed me _that_ much?” 

Hermann rolls his eyes as he turns away from the darkening sky and meets Newt’s gaze from across the room. There’s a nervous energy Newt exhibits tonight, from his posture to the way his eyes dart over the room before landing once more on Hermann.

There’s a strand of hair out of place, loosen from the hair gel Newton uses (Hermann abhors the smell of it), and falls across his forehead. 

Newt doesn’t comb it back like he usually does, instead, he rubs the back of his neck with his hand, “Guitar string busted on me earlier. Can’t play anything for you tonight, sugar.” 

“There’s a radio in the kitchen if you want some music.” Hermann points out. 

Newt brightens. There’s almost a skip to his step as he walks towards the kitchen. They both wince when he flicks the radio on. He’s quick to twist the dial, switching from one channel to another, the loud static turning to tinny voices, and finally, he settles on a song Hermann doesn’t recognize. 

It takes a few beats before Hermann realizes he has, in fact, heard the music before. One of the romantic songs Newton has played for him. 

Newton looks shy again as he holds out his hand, “Dance with me.” 

“Newton, my leg-” Hermann tries but takes Newton’s hand anyway. It’s a delicate touch of fingertips brushing across palms before melting into a firmer grasp. 

“I promise I’ll go slow.” Newton pulls him closer until there’s no more space between them, leaving them standing chest-to-chest. Hermann allows himself to be swept away. 

Newton’s true to his word—going slow—it’s not quite dancing what they’re doing, they’re swaying in Hermann’s kitchen. Even though Hermann's a couple of inches taller than Newt, he lowers his face, hiding it against Newt’s shoulder. With him this close, being in Newton’s arms, the scent of him overwhelms. A blend of gasoline, sweat, and hair gel. 

Hermann turns his focus downward on their feet. The last rays of sunlight fade from the kitchen floor, disappearing as the sun sinks away for the night. Patches of moonlight begin to form against the titles, making their shoes shine with it. 

He lifts his eyes once the song finishes and finds Newton’s gaze already on him, watching closely. There are lights reflecting off his glasses and half his face. And the radio plays another song, slower than the one before giving them a perfect excuse to keep swaying together.

“Careful, doll, you got that look in your eye.” 

“What look is that?” 

The pink blush dusting his cheeks is almost muted by the moonlight. “Like you want to kiss me.” 

He holds Newton’s stare and thinks about the crumpled up letter that he never sent lying at the bottom of his waste-bin confessing the very same desire. 

His words come out stiff, but his heart raced in his chest. He imagines that it’s beating so fast that Newt might be able to feel it. “May I? Kiss you that is.” 

“I’ve…” Newt hesitates, not completely releasing Hermann from his arms as he takes a step backward. 

Hermann’s gentle with his prying, asking softly, “What is it, Newton?” 

“I’ve never done this before,” Newt confesses, his voice barely above a whisper. 

“Been kissed?” 

Newton nods. His face is all pink with embarrassment. Hermann’s silence lingers as he steps closer, cupping Newton’s face with his hands. The stubble is rough against his fingertips as he strokes over Newton’s cheeks. His thumb trails from Newt’s cheekbones to the corner of his mouth, he runs his fingers over his pink lips. 

“I’ll go slow,” Hermann smiles as he repeats Newton’s words back to him. “I promise.” 

Newton’s mouth parts, the heat of his exhaling warm the pad of Hermann’s thumb, seemingly breathless as he nods once more. His eyes fall in tandem with Hermann’s. Their gazes drift towards one another’s mouth as they sway closer and closer. 

The city is alive like most prior evenings. The heavy traffic, the soft footfalls of his cat jumping off the couch, the music playing in the background. The moon hangs, alone, in the dark sky, and the stars twinkle, a sight that always draws Hermann to his window. But all the noises and all the colorful sights fade from existence, drowned out as their lips brush together. The first of many goodnight kisses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from the song Goodnight, My Love by the Elegants. I listened to A LOT of doo-wop while writing this fic kadfhjak


End file.
